The McBroflarsh Residence
by Ochiba Konpeki
Summary: Kyle gets kicked out of his home after being outed to his parents, and he gains a couple roommates. Three teenage boys living alone in a house together... Jeez. Stylenny.


_This is confusing as all hell. I wrote it back in March on my sister's iPod while my phone was in the hands of my school superintendent. _

OoO

**The McBroflarsh Residence**

The mailbox was the first indication that something was off about the house.

It read 23, followed by nonsense that seemed to read McBroflarsh and was scribbled over in Sharpie, _FAGS_. Within the five room home (split in half and shared with a kindly old woman named Ms. Person) were three equally nonsensical young men; Stanley Marsh, who at present was suffering the glare of a certain blond; Kenneth McCormick, who was glaring at a certain raven; and Kyle Broflovski, who was obliviously, of not a bit uneasily, sleeping in Marsh's lap.

What? You're confused? Yes, I know; why the fuck would Kyle be sleeping on Stan's lap? Why is Kenny mad? Why in the hell do they have a house together?  
>Let's rewind a bit, shall we?<p>

OoO

Ms. Person, in the fifteen years since her husband had passed and she'd started renting out the left side of her comfortable little home, had met and housed many odd people, seen many things, comforted many a wayward traveler, and learned a lot about life, even at her ripe old age of seventy-three. There'd been her first patron, a quiet young man by the name of Dallas who told her stories about traveling from Morganfield, Kentucky through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado by hitch-hiking (he was on the road to Hollywood), the heavily pregnant young widow who eventually left to move in with her childhood best friend in Maryland (two years later, she attended their wedding), the odd college-student with a vast collection of ancient swords, the twins last year who 'accidentally' left Fluffy the longhaired tabby in her possession... Many, many people she'd housed here. Fascinating, scary, exciting, dreary, kindly, cold people. People of all kinds.

But never was there an event quite as exciting as the day that young Kyle Broflovski was brought here.

It was late in the evening, far past her bedtime, but as enthralled as she was with the book she had her nose buried in, she couldn't quite bring herself to put it away. She was forced to, however, when the bell rang thrice in an impatient manner she was all too familiar with. Her wrinkled features folded into a smile that exaggerated the laugh and smile lines around her lips and eyes as she bustled off to the doorway to greet the young man the local high school had assigned to visit her once a week as extra credit after he thoroughly cussed out an elderly man on a field trip who had apparently 'attacked his Jew'. He'd never elaborated when Ms. Person asked, and two years later he still visited her often.

"Eric," She greeted warmly, her smile faltering as she took in the suspicious bundle folded in his arms, covered in a thick layer of the snow falling in clumps beyond them. "Oh, dear." she murmured, ushering the large boy inside.

"Ms. Person." he greeted, worry thinly veiled with anger harsh in his tone. "Have you met my Jew?"

The elderly woman gasped in horror as she watched the teen set his burden on her kitchen table, unraveling the blankets to reveal an almost-naked, shivering male form curled protectively in on itself. Red-raw welts disrupted his fragile-looking skin at regular intervals from the back of his neck to the back of his ankles. A clear, quickly bruising handprint showed vividly on his right cheek.

Once upon a time, Ms. Person was a nurse. She unconsciously slipped into a professional manner as she barked directions to her startled young friend, telling him where her first aid kit was.

OoO

Soon enough, the injured redhead's wounds had been cleaned, rubbed over with a sweet-smelling substance that would alleviate the swelling, and, where the skin had been broken, bandaged. Each mark was a little less than an inch wide, and approximately two and a half inches apart, aside from one wayward diagonal line that stretched from his right hip to his left shoulder blade. Eric insisted on dressing him himself, gently sliding the fragile form into a pair of pajamas one of the twins had accidentally left behind. As he absently stroked the battered teen's wine red curls, he looked Ms. Person-perhaps the only person who's authoritah he respected-and stated in a final sort of tone, "I'm paying for his rent here."

Ms. Person was the only person Eric knew who could read him like a book. "What did you do, young man?"

The tone was not accusing-in fact, it was sympathetic-but Eric winced anyway. "May I put him to bed, first?"

So he was put in the guest bedroom in the left wing of the house, tucked in in an almost maternal fashion by the brunette, and left to sleep as the old friends settled into two rocking chairs by the fire place, mugs of hot tea cradled in two very different pairs of hands. "Where to start..?" Eric murmured in a tone that was almost reminiscent of fretting. Ms. Person smiled, waving a dark, frail hand adorned with a simple golden wedding band towards him in a go-on gesture.

"Well, you see, that was my filthy Jewrat." the woman could practically see him restraining his language for her sake and smiled appreciatively. "I see. What's his name, child?"

"Kahl Broflovski."

"Gerald's boy?"

"The very same."

"I delivered him. Had a whole mess of bright-red Jewfro."

Eric grinned crookedly. That was why he liked her. "So, anyway, the ungrateful waste of space-" he gestured towards the general direction of the bedroom, "-was refusing to respect my authoritah. So, I, uh..." he looked faintly ashamed of himself.

"I took it a bit too far." he admitted quietly. "I outed him to his parents."

Ms. Person mulled this over for several long moments. "You, my ignorant young friend, are an asshole."

"Yes ma'am. I know."

The woman shook her head. "No self-respectin' mother nor father could tear up their own precious flesh and blood." Eric sighed with a rueful grin on his lips. "From what I understand, it wasn't his mother but his grandmother, who apparently took a chapter from V.C. Andrews... Literally."

Ms. Person shot him a surprised look, unconsciously reaching out to grab the book she'd been so absorbed in earlier. "You mean, like when Grandmother finds Christopher eye-raping Catherine?" Eric merely chuckled, nodding pensively.

OoO

Stan winced as he took in the sad sight before him. Kyle was knocked out completely-by all rights, he should be; according to Ms. Person, the moment he'd regained consciousness he'd been stuffed with melatonin supplements (which he knew effected Kyle very strongly) and painkillers.

He and Kyle were four or five years past actual secrets, so he had no moral qualms with promptly undressing his unconscious Super-Best upon entering the room, and now he gazed upon his boxer-clad redhead's injuries with a dangerous fury. They looked red and raw and painful and he ruefully pushed up his boxers to reveal half off his left buttcheek just to needlessly assure himself that the marks went all the way down without pause.

He was pissed beyond measure at the whole lot of the Broflovskis. Stan had watched Kyle struggle with his sexuality for years, trying to convince him that it was okay. Nothing in particular, really-it was difficult as fuck trying to tell him that being sexual at all was okay.

He had to give Kyle 'The Talk', he had to convince him that no kittens would die if he jacked off, he had to comfort him after Bebe tried to have sex with him back in grade six and he had a panic attack, he had to calm him down when he realized out of the blue that he was gay... Then there was the incident with the Curly Goth. That one was tough as fuck to handle. Basically, when Grandma moved in when he was eleven, it killed any chance he had at developing his sexuality like a normal child. And now she fucking belted him because he was gay.

Like Kyle wasn't fucked up enough as it was.

Stan settled himself onto the bed beside him, pulling a quilt around his shoulders and contenting himself with planning out his big 'Okay to be Gay/Your Grandma is Insane/Don't Worry We Still Love You' speech. He had a feeling it'd be his best one yet.

OoO

Unfortunately (fortunately?) the speech wasn't necessary. Kyle woke up slowly, starting to stretch out his back only to yelp in sharp pain and collapse back against the mattress.  
>"Ky..." Stan murmured soothingly, delicately threading his fingers through Kyle messy red locks, remembering when he shaved them off in seventh grade. They'd grown back much looser and silkier and more manageable, but Kyle still didn't like it. Every time he tried to get a haircut, all three of his best friends tagged along to assure that he got 'just a trim', resulting in his hair reaching halfway to the bottom of his shoulder blades when wet, but as it was they only went a bit past his shoulders.<p>

"She beat me with a belt." he intoned apathetically, prompting a grimace from Stan, who nodded slowly and replied softly, "Yeah, Hun. Pretty much."

Then the tears came-a slow stream of anguish made tangible. Kyle half-sobbed the story of coming home to his mother screaming about his being a faggot while his dad fought valiantly to do some damage control and the sight of Grandmother standing off to the side patiently, a leather belt doubled over in her palm. Her sharp tongue made quick work of her daughter's unwillingness to have Kyle hurt, insisting she could beat it out of him.

Stan felt an odd sense of pride as Kyle tied together the mental imagine of himself, beaten and bleeding and naked, sprawled across the kitchen table, crying but defiant as he informed the silent room that he was still gay, prompting one last wild slash against his skin, crossing over many of the already present marks.

He'd passed out around that time, so Stan filled in the blanks. Ike texted Cartman (the child had apparently decided that he should see the full effect of his actions), and, while the adults were in the other room, doing some more screaming, quickly dressed him in his boxers (his shirt and jeans were ruined during Kyle's scuffle with his mother about taking them off) and a blanket folded on a chair nearby. Ike made damn sure Kyle was in Cartman's arms and out of harms way, something both boys were proud of him for.

Kyle looked around the room with a precious awe-filled joy when he was informed that he now owned this room and a couple others, making Stan grin despite himself. "Cartman's paying rent until you turn eighteen or move, dude."

The redhead's mesmerizing emerald eyes, slightly bloodshot from all his recent crying, snapped to Stan's anxiously. "Are you telling me he feels _guilty_?"

Stan merely shrugged, urging his super-best back to sleep with quiet reassurances.

OoO

It was difficult to find the boundaries in their friendship.

This was the thought that ping-ponged back and forth in Stan's head as he relaxed farther into the wall behind him, unabashedly watching the bleary silhouette of his best friend showering. Even they, themselves, had difficulty drawing, respecting, and recognizing the lines. Sometimes it was okay for Kyle to linger in his arms and sigh into his chest in the mornings when they first saw each other. Sometime Kyle wouldn't stand for more than a pat on the back.

Sometimes Stan was glad to let his super-best curl up and use his thigh as a pillow during homeroom. Sometimes Kyle was denied.

Sometimes it was okay for them to feed each other, sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes it was okay for Stan and Kyle to converse while one of them was bathing, and sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes it was okay to bandage each other up. Sometimes it wasn't.

But there were three very important rules. Nonverbal, no-matter-what rules.

All three rules are demonstrated in the following scenes.

The water shut off and Kyle sighed, accepting the towel offered to him, but there was a pause before Kyle removed himself from behind the concealing fogged glass. "... Stan?" he murmured at last, prompting a reassuring 'hm?' from the boy, "I don't want you to see."

His voice was patient. Kyle felt his lips upturn slightly at the soothing tone of voice. "Ky, I've already seen them. And you won't be able to take care of them by yourself. Now, tell me why you don't want me to see?"

Dammit. Kyle sighed irritably, tracing 'ASSHOLE' backwards into the glass so that Stan could read it. "Would you want to advertise that your grandmother beat you, dude?" he pointed out, prompting an understanding noise from the other teen's throat.

"Just pretend I'm tending to your war-wounds. I'll even praise you for not letting our army's secrets slip." he joked, tracing his fingers over the letters as well and prompting Kyle to write below it, FINE.

They were silent as Kyle awkwardly stepped out, his hair plastered to his face and shoulders. He seemed to hesitant for a second, a blush on his bruised cheeks as he grinned half-assedly at his super-best, then placed his palms on the counter and leaned forward slightly, bracing his knees against the cabinets. Stan looked the wounds up and down, noting that most of the swelling had gone down, but the cuts, seemingly more numerous in light of the depleting welts, seemed red and raw and one near his left shoulder blade looked infected. It didn't really faze Stan; he'd treated more of Kenny's bumps, aches, cuts and bruises than he'd care to admit. He didn't hesitate to dab rubbing alcohol onto a washcloth and press it gently to an area where the skin had ripped clean away around a cut on the second lash. The words 'friction burn' sprang to mind as Kyle yelped, automatically flinching away only to sigh and hiss when the cleansing chemical was replaced on the wound, but Stan wasn't sure if that was what the injury was called. The only sounds in the room were Kyle's yelps and whines and a low steady hum emitting from the back of Stan's throat, as though in comfort.

Instinctively, Stan skipped over the wounds he knew were present that were hidden under Ms. Person's light green towel, sensing a line. Kyle could take care of that himself after he left. He knelt, starting again at the redhead's ankles, one of which bore a nasty burn-like line from the back to almost all the way around the skinny appendage. Now that he thought about it, there were bright red spots along his left side as well, and he winced in sympathy; he knew Kyle had sensitive skin. Often times the redhead had uncertainly voiced that he thought he felt pain more acutely than others.

There was a just-visible angry mark on his right thigh, just above his knees and halfway covered by the towel. It looked deep enough that it might scar, and Stan mentally raged as he washed over it, receiving another whine from his super-best.

OoO

I'm never really sure what to make of them.

Stan and Kyle, that is. They act like some sort of bizarre hybrid between siblings, best friends, newlyweds, and, occasionally, they add in qualities that made you think of an old married couple, just to fuck with our heads.

I mean, yeah, they've always been unusually close. I guess it really started in seventh grade, when Craig loudly came out as being gay and in love with Tweek after bashing his competition (Red Goth)'s nose in. Immediately, people were teasing both of them relentlessly. Even I felt bad for them, tried to keep an eye on poor little Tweek. However, Stan and the rest of the football team-minus Cartman- (Token, Clyde, Kevin, and a bunch of other kids who's names don't pop readily to mind) decided to host the first annual Parkview Middle Gay Pride Week.

I will never forget the expression on Kyle's face when Stan pranced up to us wearing skinny jeans and a gay pride V-neck, kissed him on the cheek sloppily with a loud "Mwah!" noise, and hugged him in an overtly gay manner while spewing inappropriate comments about how 'fabulously sexy' he looked that morning. It was truly an epic moment.  
>The idea was that everybody is a little gay. "Embrace Your Inner Rainbow!" the T-shirts read. The kids got into it pretty fast. Before Wednesday, almost everybody had someone to pretend to be gay with, and seven other kids came out of the closet, including Butters and me. Of course, I just loudly proclaimed that I was pansexual, but it was cute watching the other kids nervously stammer out their orientation.<p>

Anyway, back to Stan and Kyle. Kyle, of course, our lovable little prude, was absolutely mortified. Especially since Stan proceeded to practically rape him at every opportunity for the next five days. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen more boys making out, holding hands, and cuddling than I did that one week.

I will forever cherish the priceless expression on Token's face when I managed to get Clyde, Craig, and Tweek to mess with him in the 'spirit of gaiety'. Have you ever been reading a book one second, and feebly warding off three of your rainbow-happy best friends the next? Ask Token about it, dude. I wanna see him squirm.

Jebas, I'm easily distracted. Focus on the Style, Kenny. Focus on the Style.

Did I mention people at Parkview like to mix names together? There were fans for practically anything you can imagine. My favorite pairing, I think, had to be Kyman, just to see their expressions. The idea of K2, Kenric, Crenny, Bunny, Benny and Stenny was intriguing as well, of course, but hey.

Style? Huh? I'm being perfectly tactful, you hag-oh. You mean the Style. Not my style of story telling. Got it. Hehe.

So, Kyle spent Gay Pride Week a nervous wreck because Stan took to doing all sorts of things that made him uncomfortable. Slapping his ass, kissing him on the cheek, sitting in his lap and vice-versa, hugging him from behind, and generally just being extremely gay.

Kyle thought that once Gay Pride Week was over, Stan'd stop. I think that's the only thing that got him through the entire week. Unfortunately for him, Stan decided metrosexuality might be his thing and continued on with his gayness, though it was toned down to an acceptable level. Eventually, though, Kyle got over it and now allows our effeminate friend to fawn over him and touch on him and act gay for him. It became a vital part of their friendship and Kyle, weeks later, admitted to yours truly that he was proud of how effective the event had been (the gay students could now walk the hallways without fear!) and secretly enjoyed the attention.

Of course, I immediately threw my arm around his shoulders and told him he could have my attention whenever and wherever he wanted it, but he just rolled his eyes.

I'll admit to you -Yes, I know you're there. I've been watching- that, secretly, I'm jealous. I'm definitely all of my boys' best bud, but I don't have a super-best. Sometimes I feel like they're in a bubble, a world all their own, where nothing can make them bleed. How else could they safe each other from peril every time, but I'm always standing just a little too close to the road? A little too far from the group? Right in line for a bullet from a completely unrelated sequence of events? I can't even escape death in Heaven or Hell. Though I suppose the cool thing is that every death wipes my slate clean, health-wise. I don't scar, no STDs are permanent, and a broken arm can be cured by hovering close to potentially fatal things. I think it might even at least try to mend my mental and emotional wounds. There's no other way I could still function at this point.

Speaking of functionality, I can hear my parents screeching from the sidewalk.

Back to that bubble my friends reside in. Nothing gets between them, no serious tragedy comes into fruition, they don't get hurt...

So imagine my surprise when I get a phone call last night at three AM from Cartman telling me that Kyle was belted by his grandmother because his family found out he was gay. My first reaction was to ask, "Do you mean Stan?" but then I realized that was a stupid question. Stan's grandparents are all deaf, blind, dumb, or dead. My second reaction was "Kyle's gay?"

My third reaction (three times a charm) was finally the correct one, "Is he alright? Where is he?"

I remember his voice was rough and kinda defensive.

"_Stupid po' boy. Of course he's fuckin' okay." _I had almost snarled before I reigned in my anger. Jackass. "Will you just tell me where he is?" I was already tugging on clothes and shoes, looking around anxiously for my parka.

"_He's unconscious, povert. Kahl doesn't need your fuckass stench to wake him up."_

Absently wondering what a fuckass was, I only sighed, plopping back onto my bed. "He's okay?" I checked; if he was hurt, I wanted to be there. Eric made an affirmative noise and listed off an address with firm instructions to wait until morning.

That was five hours ago. I still haven't slept.

Fuck it, I'm going.

OoO

_Here you go. I felt bad about not updating for so long (I have a vicious writer's block) so I dug this out._

_I'm putting it on complete for now because I prolly won't continue it for a long time._

_And yes, this is a Stylenny._

_**QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, CONCERNS? REVIEW!**  
><em>


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